


A Little Catching Up

by ForgiveMeChanter



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Banter, Bottom Hawke, Frot, Frottage, Frotting, Implied Templar fixation on Hawke's end, Incest, M/M, Moderate brief angst, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForgiveMeChanter/pseuds/ForgiveMeChanter
Summary: Carver uses one of his free weekend nights off from the Templar barracks to check in with Hawke back at the mansion. They have some brief arguments that vary in silliness and then agreeably rub their dicks together.





	A Little Catching Up

"Messere Hawke, your brother the Lord Carver is here to see you," Bodahn's call rang out as it clattered off of the walls in the stone halls of the Kirkwall manor house. Hawke adjusted the collar of his smoking jacket and headed down the stairs to the entry parlor where he greeted his brother, who stood crisp and clean in his Templar regalia.  
"Thank you, Bodahn--Mother has left for the night, correct?"  
"Yes, Serrah, she's off calling on friends, the--"  
"Oh, no need to waste words, my friend. Just wondering where she'd gone off to. Say, why don't you and Sandal take the night off as well? Head out to the main square, I've heard an Orlesian acting troupe is in town. Doesn't matter. Find something."  
"Yes, Messere." Bodahn said, wringing his hands. He looked about the room and his mouth worked for a moment in unvoiced concern before he sighed and called out to Sandal. "You heard the man, my boy! Why don't we see about those actors? Maybe some of them could do with an enchantment, eh? Branch out into the world of the stage?"  
This having been met with Sandal's vocal and buoyant glee, the two departed and Hawke clasped his hand on Carver's back. "You were rather silent throughout that whole affair, weren't you?"  
"Oh, what, you want me to undermine your authority in front of your staff so that you can put me in my place? Or do you want me to make conversation with the dog?"  
"Both sound good, yes."  
Carver laughed and cut it off abruptly with a heavy clearing of his throat. He scratched his nose and his eyelashes fluttered to point at the floor as a flush crept up on his cheeks. "It's...been a while since I've come round. No guests tonight, just us?"  
"Just us. It's been long enough. I confess I almost don't remember how this works."  
"Maker, it's been two weeks. At the utmost. The other boys spend their every weekend night at the Rose or somewhere backalley and what, I run off to my family? I'd get laughed out of the barracks. I need to make the rounds, but you know I always come back home. It's good for my reputation, anyway--the Kirkwall family man."  
"Mmm." Hawke waved for Carver to follow him and guided him into the study. He retrieved two glasses from his desk and filled them with a fine Tevinter wine. "You know, Fenris says--"  
"Shove it. Heard it." Carver snatched a glass off of the desk and tossed it down his throat.  
"Andraste's ass, Carver, do you know how much that cost me?"  
"Yes."  
Hawke studied him with a dark eye. He turned the glass over in his hands. He tossed back his head and swallowed it with a shake of his head and a profound grimace. "Shit. Well, now that I've done that, you must admit that you can still sense the heady herbal melodies of this rich Tevinter brew. You can even feel, in that burn in your throat, the pitiless sun that drowned these bitter grapes in the essence of existential toil, and I do believe there is a hint of blood after all."  
"Maker, brother, you're not funny."  
"Then what else do you keep coming back here for? The scenery?"  
"You could call it that," Carver murmured. His eyes lingered on Hawke's throat. "You could call it nostalgia, but I don't know if I like that one. It's dreamy. It's poncey. What I come back here for is like digging in the dirt. Old, simple work. Home."  
"Not the most erotic imagery," Hawke frowned. Carver laughed, a harsh mabari bark.  
" _Erotic_? That what you call this? If you want to bandy about words like 'erotic' you can toss that at one of your sensitive little elves or one of your tortured brooding mages. Maker. 'Erotic'. Did you even know that word when we'd go sneaking off in the barn?"  
"Of course I did," Hawke snapped. His brow furrowed up in a knotted scowl and he examined his nails with the ruthless precision of a taskmasker on a deadline.  
"Right, sure. Do you want to do this or don't you? Time's wasting. Who knows how long those dwarves can stand any kind of Orlesian prancing, let alone the kind where they expect to be paid for your watching it."  
"I _did_ ," Hawke said, "But _do_ I?"  
"Oh, what, were you trying to wine and dine your brother then? Where did this come from?"  
"Maybe I--"  
"Oh, _don't_ you start," Carver recoiled. His lip curled. "Don't you start changing up something that's worked just fine the way it is for so bloody long."  
"You have your Templar-fucking-Order and what do I have?" Hawke shouted. He flung his glass to the floor and Carver drew back. His eyes darted between the shattered glass, his brother's clenched fist, and his furious face. "What do I have but some-- _people_ , always some people, making demands! They come and they go as they please, always wanting something, and you--at least you're always there. You've always _been_ there. Maybe I just wanted something nice. Something just nice. For one night, Carver!"  
"The Order isn't what you think it is," Carver said, his voice low. "I can't say I find any great peace in the company of my brothers in arms. I can't say I find any great belonging in watching them--you know what? No. No. We are not having this conversation. I came here for one thing and--"  
"One thing! One thing! So you admit it too? That's it? I'm on the level of a night at the Rose to you, then?"  
"Maker, do not start this. I am tired. Do you understand? Do you think you're the only one who gets something else out of this? Do you think, ever, that I might like things the way they are? Familiar? Not complicated? I'm not your wife, you understand me? I'm your brother. I'm your brother, and I don't want to lose that to any other ideas you get up in your head."  
"So, what, we can't have dinner and drinks, then? That's something you only do with a wife, now? How many wives do you have? Are you married to mother, too?"  
"That's disgusting," Carver spit.  
"Carver! That's my bloody carpet!"  
"You started it," he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Do you understand me, though? Do you hear what I'm telling you?"  
"Yes, yes, fine. Do you understand me, though?"  
"It's sorted."  
"Good," Hawke said. He raised his hand and tentatively placed it on Carver's stomach. "So..." He jerked his chin at Carver's waist sash. "Are we?"  
"Maker, yes," Carver hissed, diving for Hawke's throat like a hound on a halla. Hawke loosened Carver's belt, the sash falling and taking the skirt of his robe with it. It pooled around his ankles and his skin stood out in stark obscenity between the crimson silk, the gold thread, and his armored chest above his waist. Hawke groaned and ran his hand up under the plate of Carver's armor and the shirt beneath it to stroke the hair on his stomach.  
"Maker, I _love_ that. I love that you _wear_ that. I love that this is what you wear these days," he hissed between his teeth. He drew close to Carver and pressed his hips against his body. The delicate silk of his evening dress formed a barrier between them so thin that it might as have been an illusion.  
"I remember," Carver laughed. He placed his hands on Hawke's hips and drew them in to hold them pressed against his body. "You were always so strange about the Templars at the Chantry," he said. He slowly began to rotate his hips. Their cocks brushed against each other, held firmly in place in a slow, high-friction dance that drew a gasp and a whine from Hawke.  
"Do you remember? That time the Mother was out?" He breathed, his words broken up between heavy breaths. His nails dug into Carver's skin beneath his armored shirt.  
Carver snickered through his nose. "Oh, I do. I do. And now I've taken Chantry vows. Maker."  
"He'll sort us out when we're dead anyway," Hawke said. He grabbed a broom leaned up against the wall as a make-do staff, directed it at a heavy evening chair, forced it with a burst of physical magic to shove itself up against the door to the study. "Take me there."  
"By the door?" Carver gaped. "What if somebody comes home?"  
"I hate when you're practical. Stop doing that."  
"But--take you? Do you mean--inside you?"  
"Of course I mean that, Carver."  
"But--not your hand, then? Or your mouth?"  
"No, Carver."  
"I thought we weren't going to change--"  
"Carver! Is this really a stand you need to take! Is now really the time!"  
"No, but--If I hurt you--"  
"I'm a _mage_ , Carver, I know how to heal myself."  
"But--fine!"  
Hawke shrugged his smoking jacket and silken trousers to the floor and lay back on the chair with his hips and legs hanging off of the edge. "Now--come over here, like this. I want to be facing you."  
"Why?"  
"Because then my dick will be pressed on your body and it'll be better like that."  
"Oh. Should I take the armor off, then?"  
"Just the plate bit. Leave the shirt."  
"What if you mess it up, then?"  
"Like that's never happened to a Templar before!"  
"They know I'm visiting my brother!"  
"Take it off too, then! Hurry it along, Carver!"  
"Don't turn that back on me. I'm being dutiful," Carver lectured through the muffling veil of his padded shirt. He tossed it to the ground and shook his head to free his hair from the shape it had enforced on him. He looked down at Hawke's body and then back up at his face with a look of quizzical horror. "What, you mean you want me to do this dry?"  
"Maker...I suppose I didn't really think this through, did I?"  
"And you want to get after me for worrying about the details!"  
"Just--get on top of me, right? We'll do this the old-fashioned way."  
"It's not like it's _bad_ , anyway," Carver said with audible and pompous relief. "I'm perfectly content with--"  
"Carver!"  
"Fine!" He knelt in front of the chair and grabbed one of Hawke's wrists. "Come down here, then, on the floor with me."  
Hawke slid down to the floor with a surly thud. Carver drew his wrist to his lips and kissed it. He positioned himself over Hawke, let his wrist go and traced his hand down his arm, his side, down behind his back. He rested his face against Hawke's neck, drew him close, pressed their cocks together, held them nestled snug in the palm of his free hand. Hawke sighed and arched his hips in grateful need.  
"Just let me do this," Carver whispered into Hawke's ear, "Alright?"  
Hawke murmured an indistinct assent and ran his fingers through Carver's hair. His fist clenched around a thick, soft handful and pressed his face into his shoulder. Carver laughed softly and turned his head to allow his breathing. He ran his thumb softly, lightly, over the heads of their cocks, massaged them together with his hips and his hand. Hawke's eyes clenched closed, blocked out all light. His breaths came short and heavy and urgent, all of his focus on his throbbing cock, his brother's hand.  
Carver's thumb grew slick from brushing across their desperate cocks as they urgently leaked their anticipation and painted them both in each other's precum. Hawke clenched at Carver's hair, drew a flinch from him that he steadied himself against. Hawke bit down gently on Carver's earlobe, his soft gasps warm and urgent and ragged in his brother's ear. Carver bit down on his lip and thrust his hips with a rhythm that grew rapidly more erratic, the strokes of his thumb sweeping in a progressively more ragged rhythm as he lost control of the chaotic patterns of desire and urgency which he had tried to contain stable and steady in the palm of his hand.  
"Oh, Maker, I think--" Carver groaned.  
"Oh, shit," Hawke hissed.  
All at once the two of them came together, great and erratic shots that mingled immediately against their bodies and in Carver's hand. Hawke's cock throbbed against Carver's and drew out a shudder in his spine that jolted his hips forward to press himself against his brother's body. They ground their hips together in a jagged dance as their breathing slowed and stabilized.  
Carver pulled back and his eyes met with Hawke's, an intensity communicated between them that drew Carver's face closer and his lips apart until finally his senses came over him and he drew back in sudden alarm.  
"Carver...were you going to kiss me?"  
"No!" Carver jumped up. He grimaced at his stomach, slick with cum, and turned to rummage through Hawke's desk. "Do you have anything to clean this up?"  
"There's a rag in the third drawer. Carver, you were going to kiss me!"  
"I was not!" He shouted, his point emphasized with a slam of the drawer. He patted himself down. "Thank you."  
"You're welcome. You absolutely were."  
"I'm going home," he snarled. He dressed himself with military haste and precision.  
"Carver--"  
"Goodbye!" He kicked the chair aside from the door.  
"Carver--"  
"What?" he roared. He turned to face Hawke with his hand on the doorknob.  
"Don't I get a kiss goodbye?"  
The door slammed behind him, his steps thundered down the hallway, and with the crack and slam of the front door he was gone. Hawke surveyed his disheveled study.  
"Maker, if I were a smart man I'd wait to do that until after I'd got him to help me clean."


End file.
